After Effects
by One Wish Magic
Summary: There were always going to be side-effects to Loki's possession. Questions that were raised, like how Clint came to terms with the fall-out of having a God in his brain.


**I don't think I've posted anything on here for at least a year. This, by my own admission, is not my most refined peice. It was compiled in fits and starts of free time in between a mountain of university work and I've done my best to smooth its rough edges. It was my original intention for this to be multi-chaptered, with each chapter focusing on Clint interacting with a different member of his new team as well as trying to deal with the lingering after effects of Loki's possession. While I love the idea it is completely impractical to the limited amount of time I have to do it in. But hey, never say never right? Either way, I'm pretty sure this could work as a one-shot.  
><strong>

**I don't own anything. I make no profit.**

* * *

><p><span><em>After Effects<em>

* * *

><p>Life was a continuous state of causality. Every action boasted an equal and opposite effect. Choices bore repercussions. These were facts.<p>

That Clint Barton had been made a scapegoat. Had been plied like an instrument under Loki's dexterous control. Had opened fire against his own allies, were also facts.

And these actions were not without implications.

Clint had survived the battle of Manhattan on a combination of willpower, adrenaline and the residual energy of Loki's possession. But now, with the immediate threat of invasion neutralized, he began to feel the full weight of his exhaustion. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept, or ate, or even just sat down. He couldn't remember the last time these vital processes had been a necessity. His muscles trembled with the abuse of over-exertion as he took in the scene around him with a sense of disillusionment.

They had apprehended Loki among the plush comforts of Stark Tower, which stood like a vision of Lady Liberty at the epicentre of debris and disaster. The Avenger's initial offensive had lapsed into a battle-weary vigilance when it became apparent that the god of mischief and lies was in no state for trickery.

Natasha was by Clint's side, naturally, speaking rapidly into her comm and directing Fury to their position. She guarded Loki's weapon with the tenacity of a mother towards her child, cradling it almost possessively against her hip. An action Clint could not fail to notice. It looked wrong in her grip and, for an instant, he had to fight the compulsion to wrench it from her.

Thor and Steve guarded the broken and bleeding god like two silent sentries, wearing the same half sombre, half severe expressions that quietly confessed they were blaming themselves with the personal responsibility of everything that had happened. Their bulk diminished Loki's figure almost to a wraith.

Bruce, still maintaining the Hulk's form, rumbled a series of low growls in the back of his throat, which had the cast of a complex, if undecipherable, form of communication. Sensing that the danger and, inadvertently, the opportunity for smashing had passed, the good doctor began to revert - shrinking back into himself like a man releasing a breath.

Tony re-entered, without anyone really appreciating that he had left, brandishing a pair of handcuffs. He dangled them tauntingly in front of Loki who, quelled by the not insignificant presence of his brother and the super-soilder, could do nothing more than sneer:

"You think those can hold me? I am a _God_!"

Tony snapped the cuffs on Loki wrists with more skill and dexterity than a civilian should possess. Loki gazed upon them indignantly, baring his teeth in a grimace.

"Oh, they don't have to hold you, princess. No, see, because one wrong move from you and Hulk here comes back out to play."

Clint did not miss the way Loki blanched at the mere mention of Bruce's alter-ego, couldn't help but derive a sick sense of satisfaction from it.

However, exhausted and covering his dignity with the shreds of his ruined pants, Bruce looked about as far away from threatening as you could get. He looked vulnerable.

"Then what is the purpose of your bonds?" Loki asked tiredly, testing their strength.

Tony just smiled and walked away. The purpose spoke for itself. A show of defeat. In the ruins of his home, the billionaire poured himself a drink and swallowed it down in one. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned to Loki and grinned:

"Oh, and as for that drink. No."

The first thing Clint learned about Tony Stark was that he could be a smug bastard. The second was that Tony looked about as bad as Clint felt. For all his bravado, the billionaire leaned heavily against the bar.

The funny thing about the aftermath of a battle is that, despite everything just happening, there is nothing left to say. The conversation is exhausted. Every war is succeeded by a single amber moment of inactivity, a second of suspended disbelief, before reality sets in.

In that moment, Clint gazed between the people around him and knew every one of them as a stranger. In that moment Clint glanced back and forth between Loki and the S.H.E.I.L.D emblem on his own chest, not knowing with any certainly who was supposed to be the enemy, or whose side he was on anyway. And, in that moment, Clint could not see a difference. Not between following an order willingly or following it without a choice. He was a pawn either way.

His doubts were born in that second of clarity. Or was it a second of confusion? The after-effects of Loki's possession came slower. Later.

The next thing he became aware of was Natasha's hand upon his shoulder, a strong, comforting pressure. And then, a conviction of sentience from Loki's tesseract-powered weapon. While she held it, he found it increasingly difficult to separate her from it. There was something about its soft, pulsing blue light that demanded and enraptured Clint's attention. Demanded it like a compulsion, an addiction, and made it impossible for him to look away. He knew that Natasha was speaking to him, he could see her lips moving, forming words which were swallowed by a low tonal humming that seemed to emanate from the weapon.

Vaguely, he wondered whether his hearing aids had malfunctioned, but that was impossible. He had just heard Tony taunting Loki not thirty seconds ago. Or was it longer? He was uncomfortably aware of how she continued to guard Loki's weapon: cradling it possessively against her hip. And just who was she guarding it from, exactly? The Demi-God? Or him? It looked wrong in her grip. It would look better in his and he wanted it. He wanted to wrench it from her grip! Possess it and command it!

"Clint."

Her tone was of practised calm, all at once as warm as comfort, and as cold as steel. It was the tone he had heard through the pain of one-hundred-and-counting bullet wounds, through the dreamy haze of innumerable concussions, in the throes of waking nightmares and infection fevers, and once, not too long ago, when reality became far too real to bare. It was the sound which brought him home. And there are some powers which even magic has no influence against.

"Clint."

He felt the pressure of her hand slide down from his shoulder to his chest, urging him back. Slowly, he allowed her to guide him, until he felt his leg brush against one of the chairs across from the bar where Tony lent.

"Sit."

He complied mutely, feeling all eyes upon him. The intensity of their gaze made him wonder what they had just witnessed. Natasha moved away from him and he felt unstable without her. He watched as she handed the weapon over to a resistant-looking Steve, moving it outside of Clint's reach and well within Loki's. This irritated Clint unreasonably. When had Natasha learned to trust someone besides himself?

And why did Loki tremble when his own weapon was returned to his vicinity? Why did he look upon it, now, with something close to betrayal, closer to fear? For a moment Loki's malicious, intelligent eyes fixed Clint in their sights, making the archer feel like his skin was crawling, and that the smooth voice still had the power to echo inside his head. Loki's eyes gave Clint the disgruntled impression that he had just, unwittingly, been part of an experiment from which Loki was drawing an assessment.

Tony pushed a glass towards him and he drank the contents down without question, turning his back on Loki. Poison was sustained by poison, right? When he pushed the empty glass back Iron-Man poured him another.

Natasha gravitated back to his side, brusheding Clint's cheek softly with her thumb; the only sign of affection she would so publically show. The touch burned like acid so that he could hardly stand it.

"You're exhausted," she said fretfully, a tone it had taken him years to recognise for what it was. He smiled grimly.

"I'll be okay."  
>"I know.<p>

Fury's jet arrived and Loki was taken into S.H.E.I.L.D's custody _almost_ without incident. Thor had contested the use of a gag on his brother – which had been one of Fury's strict specifications – denouncing it as inhumane and unnecessary. With the eminent threat of Mjolnir and the wrath of a Thunder-God, the arresting agents had been inclined to let the matter slide, with only the minimalist damage to the jets interior hull. Loki spent the rest of the journey resenting his brothers defence. And his proximity.

Bruce's dignity was restored through the gift of a new pair of shorts, which he accepted gracefully. Ever weary of S.H.E.I.L.D and its agents, however, he alighted at the far end of the hanger with Tony, performing a preliminary field assessment on their fallen idol. This was something Tony had refused the S.H.E.I.L.D medics the 'honour' of. To his credit he was being _slightly_ more co-operative than usual.

"Any pain when you move your neck?" Bruce asked, applying a gentle pressure to each vertebrae. Tony laughed.

"Um, doc, I just fell about a thousand foot from the sky and rode the hulk-express – veto seatbelt – for the last couple of miles down. Yeah, there's pain."

An exasperated smile tugged at the edges of Bruce's lips.

"And how about when I do this?"

He flicked Tony on the ear.

"Ow!" Tony frowned, rubbing his abused extremity. "There's a streak of sadism in you, Banner!" He accused without heat.

Steve sat opposite Thor and Loki, still guarding the offending weapon with an inscrutable expression. He held it loosely and a little away from himself, as one would a snake

Natasha and Clint occupied the same bench as their captain, sitting a small distance apart from him, with Natasha interposed between Clint and his view of the weapon. Clint couldn't fail to notice her rigid posture as she used her body as a shield, and he wondered what she must have seen the moment he had lost control. What she had seen to frighten _her_. The thought gave him a sick, hollow feeling in his stomach, so he tried not to think about it, tried to allow the smooth rhythm of the jet to sooth him, the sound of the familiar purring engine. The jet had always meant sanctuary. It meant the mission was over and they were on their way home. It meant he could sleep. Usually.

When he could hold his head up no longer, he allowed it to slide onto Natasha's shoulder, felt the muscles in her neck tighten to bring into life a demure smile. He tried to smile to, but somehow the image came out wrong. The scotch he had ingested wasn't sitting prettily in his empty stomach and he focused on the noisome discomfort to keep himself awake. He had to remain vigilant.

While he doubted Loki still exercised control over him, he simply wasn't prepared to relax in the presence of a being who, up until very recently, had used his mind as his own personal play thing. Call it soldiers obstinacy. He also trusted the various members of Fury's disillusioned team about as far as he could throw them which, considering the raw bulk of Thor and Captain America alone, wouldn't be very far even on his best day.

Natasha quickly became aware of his resistance. She carded her fingers through his short hair, whispering:

"Close your eyes."

"No."

She knew what the problem was. She glanced at each of their fellow Avengers in turn, her gaze lingering on Loki.

"They're not a threat to us," she told him gently, but with unshakable conviction.

"Don't know that," Clint contested weakly.

Natasha sighed. His gallantly, while endearing and completely inappropriate, would be the death of him one day.

"Then I'm perfectly capable of watching my own back while you take a rest."

"'m not tired."

A small laugh rumbled in the back of her throat.

"Keep telling yourself that and close your eyes."

But then, the moment inverted. With all the fleeting irrelevance of someone flicking off a switch, their whole world was plunged into darkness. Clint shook his head vehemently against her shoulder: the quick desperate movement of a man slowly drowning in himself.

The gesture made Natasha hate Loki almost more than she could bare without being ripped apart. Had she been any less professional, she would have put a bullet in the trickster's brain just on principle. Instead, she simply wrapped her arms around Clint's suddenly fragile-seeming body and drew him in close, until she could feel his heartbeat next to hers: feel it beating just a little too fast, but strong and vital. For once she didn't care about composure, not when she felt Clint so close the to limits of his breaking point. And part of her knew anyway, there would be no judgement on this flight. Not today.

Steve averted his eyes politely away from the scene when he accidentally caught it. Tony watched the assassin duo with a rapt intensity that verged on intrusion.

The truth was, it was not just the avengers unknown qualities which kept Clint fighting exhaustion. He was afraid, if he closed his eyes, of what he would see. Loki's possession may have usurped his agency, denied him any control he might have had over his own body, but it _had_ left him with enough lucidity to know, every moment, exactly what he was doing. Know it, and be unable to stop himself. That had been the very worst part.

But the sadism of Loki's possession had not ended there. Whatever it was, it worked like a catalyst: kept its hosts fighting, using a limitless store of energy, even as their bodies wasted. Kept under it long enough, Clint was sure a man could die without even knowing it. For three days he had felt his muscles weaken from starvation, and yet not experienced hunger; felt his mouth dry to an arid desert, and yet not needed to drink; been awake for seventy-two hours straight, sick with exhaustion, and yet had no ability to sleep. Clint knew torture, and Loki's possession had far exceeded that. It had been like having something malignant growing inside of him, that he was unable to rip out without ripping himself apart. How did you reconcile war when you yourself were the enemy?

After that, submitting to sleep seemed all to similar to losing control again. Especially with Loki on the jet.

Slowly, he became increasingly aware of Steve watching him, as Natasha's embrace had inadvertently opened up the view between them. He hated the look of sympathy he caught in Captain America's eyes. He was not some child to be pitied! He wanted to challenge the patriotic dick and demand to know what his problem was! And … how startlingly did the Captain's blue eyes reflect the light from the spear's tesseract-powered core! He attempted to articulate a scathing remark, but his thick tongue betrayed him, emitting nothing more dignified than a low, drawn-out garble. And in front of the coup-de-grace of all superheroes. How mortifying.

Natasha hushed him softly, and he knew then that he had her worried. She commenced an action that was strictly reserved to the condition of him bleeding out on the battlefield. With her index finger she traced circular motions across his temple, an action that was so reserved and yet so intimate. It soothed him instantly.

Aware that she had relaxed her position, she manoeuvred herself so that her body, once again, shielded Clint from any view of Steve and the weapon he protected. She knew there would be side effects from Loki's possession. She was prepared to deal with them, but she had to know what she was up against. She watched his behaviour closely and felt, every moment, like she was betraying him.

Almost unconsciously, her eyes travelled to the Asgardian brothers, who sat silent and defensive. Thor met her gaze and, for a moment, they interrogated each other across the distance for answers that neither of them possessed. Neither had, nor could, overlook the similarities between Clint and Loki's conduct. And, whether Loki had been acting under his own free will, or was as much a victim in this as Clint was, would have far-reaching implications. For all of them.

* * *

><p>The first thing Clint became aware of was that he must have fallen asleep. Damn. He came to in the dispassionate embrace of heavily starched sheets on a hard, wooden bed, with a pounding headache and the taste of Scotch on his breath. He came to alternately screaming Natasha and Loki's name, but quickly smothered the sounds when he realized he had no idea where he was, and no memory of getting there. The light, which permeated the room like oil on water, was turned too low to allow him to make out anything distinctive. Far away he could hear the purr of a tremendous, industrial engine.<p>

He forced himself to remain calm, remember his training. Survival one-oh-one: what to do if you find yourself in a potential hostage situation. He quickly took an inventory: there were no restraints and, though his whole body ached, he didn't think anything was broken, which meant he was mobile enough to make a quick escape if the opportunity presented. Though, he felt weak, like he had just gone ten rounds against Natasha with his hands tied … and the flu. So maybe not that quick of an escape then. He must have been drugged: sedated. Chloroform maybe?

His head pulsed in sympathy with his heart, his stomach cramped painfully and his throat burned with such an intensity that it was agony even to breath. Whatever he had been given, he had been given far too much and he felt alarmingly, incapacitatingly disorientated, as if the bottom has fallen out of everything he knew – like sand trickling through a funnel.

What had happened to him? Why couldn't he remember? He had some dim conception of an impending threat that stalked the edges of his reason, except the details had corroded. Somewhere close at hand, he heard the sound of shattering glass, and knew it was his body which had broken it. He allowed himself a moment, five seconds to catch his breath, then forced himself to get up again, reach for another arrow at his back and … and feel his hand close around air.

"Clint."

It was Natasha's voice again. That same tone calling him back, calling him back home.

"You're going to be okay."

And suddenly the world came back into focus. The shadows retreated and became harmless spectres. The details fell back into their familiar disorder – which made understanding anything like trying to complete a jigsaw with pieces from seven different component puzzles.

Clint collapsed back onto the bed with a growl half of frustration, half of relief, drawing a shaking hand across his face. He had thought … but no. There was no hostage situation. At least, not any more. Time, it seemed, had dissolved its allegiance to both consistency and logic.

"We're on the Hellcarrier," Natasha continued, "room one-oh-three, second floor."

She spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable to make sure he understood. With her calm, woodwind timbre, which always retained just the smallest bite of her mother-tongue she, piece by piece, reaffirmed his place in the world. It was a technique they used out in the field: a steady stream of facts – everything that was real.

The Hellcarrier? So this was Fury's 9th symphony? Just on the merit of its disparagingly regulation bedding alone, Clint thought its facilities might have been overestimated.

He searched for Natasha in the dankness, silently thanking her foresight, for it must have been her, in dimming the lights. He found her sitting at the other end of the room, on a severe, straight-backed chair, interposing a void between them. This was another technique he recognised from the field. They called it distancing – but really it was a tactical retreat. Knowing each other better than anyone else subliminally meant knowing just how dangerous they could be, especially to each other. Distancing allowed them the freedom to react, adjust and blow off steam, with the comfort that the other was still within reach of words, but not anything more substantial.

"It's still Saturday, just turned 7:57pm. You've been asleep for a little over an hour."

She smiled when his eyes finally met hers, but the expression was tight. There was some emotion in that smile which his disorientated mind just couldn't work out.

Seeing that he was calm, she stood slowly and began walking towards him, pausing momentarily between each step to re-asses the situation. Clint knew the procedure and yet he could not prevent the feelings of anger and grief which coursed through him at her hesitation. Did she think him some caged beast who could only be approached with extreme caution? … Was she validated in thinking that?

"Medical checked you over while you were out."

Her lips parted to permit a more natural smile. Clint was an infamously difficult patient. She was certain that half of S.H.E.I.L.D'S medical staff took their own sick days when they learned Agent Barton was in again.

"I guess an extra-terrestrial attack on Manhattan was enough dangerous living for one day." Her smile slipped: "You're suffering from exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition and a beautiful concussion, for which I apologise, by the way."

She alighted on the edge of his bed, still too cautious, still too distant for his comfort. He tried to reach out for her, reassure her that he wasn't the monster she had seen him be: he was still him, _that_ would never change. But his body, like everything else, wouldn't co-operate. His arms were too heavy to move. He ground out another moan of frustration and felt hot, shameful tears fill his eyes. What the hell was wrong with his emotions?

"They also said you might experience some side-effects from Loki's possession: disorientation, memory lapses, irrational responses. Nothing long-term though."

That name resonated with Clint, like a pup attending to the express command of its master, and then questioning its own obedience. Natasha hated the conflict in that reaction. Clint, she knew, applied the same theory of firing an arrow to everything in his life: aim, shoot, no questions. Or, at least he used to.

"Loki," he asked, breathing hard, "he get away?"

It was the same question he had posed in the medical bay after he had first came round. Natasha tried to ignore the dread its repetition made her feel. Clint had a right to be confused, after all.

"No," she told him calmly, "we stopped him. We brought him into custody. Don't you remember?"

He didn't, but he wasn't about to tell her that.

"Vaguely."

It wasn't the first time he had ever lied to protect her, but she must not have been expecting it, otherwise she would have saw straight through his poker-face. Or maybe she just chose not to. After all, it was infinitely easier for them both to pretend that he wasn't going crazy. Loki's possession had the disorientating effect of a hangover, of trying to piece together the details of some wild, crazy ride when nothing was in the right order and very little made sense.

"Fury's waiting to decide what to do with him: whether he'll stand trial here or on Asgard."

"Waiting on what?"

Clint was surprised to hear the venom in his own voice. If Natasha noticed it, she did not comment.

"Us," she replied simply.

Clint almost laughed. Fury waiting on them? Now there was an event it was almost worth having his brain picked apart like a foam cushion to see.

But then Natasha qualified it:

"The Avengers."

He looked at her, for the second time that day, like he didn't know her at all. Because when had the infamous, solitary Black Widow become part of a team? When had she stepped outside everything she knew and began trusting people other than Clint? People like Steve? Could so much had changed in three days? And, didn't Clint get a choice? An option to opt out of this rag-tag, motley team of genetically engineered freaks? Or was he just assumed to be an enthusiastic part of it?

Loki may have been a virulent, manipulative bastard, but apparently he had been right about one thing: freedom _was_ a lie.

"Once you and Tony are back on your feet we'll have a debriefing."

Yeah, right, sure. Because of course it was him _and_ the billionaire who were currently out of commission.

The austere bed creaked as she reached over to retrieve something from the night stand, the movement making him feel vaguely sea-sick. Closing his eyes and breathing hard against the motion, he felt rather than saw something cool and cylindrical being slid into his hand, and that hand being guided resolutely towards his lips.

"Drink, you're severely dehydrated."

He could feel her so much closer to him now. Feel the comforting warmth of her body just centimetres from his own. Instead of feeling gratified, however, he was afraid, because he sensed just how little he was in control of himself. He didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't bare to have her pull away.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, in a tone where he could _hear_ her smile, "you threw up the Scotch you ingested on Steve."

Clint groaned at the shame, but also silently congratulated himself on his superior aim.

Natasha laughed, a sound that was deceptively easy, concealing her lingering tension.

"It could have been worse," she reassured him, "it could have been Tony."

He half wished it had been Loki.

Natasha pressed the glass more insistently against his lips, reminding him that he was still yet to take a sip. In all honesty, Clint was sure that liquid was the last thing he wanted in his delicate, temperamental stomach right now. He would almost more willingly be hooked up to a drip as long as it meant he didn't have to swallow anything. She sensed his hesitancy.

"There's a bucket beside the bed, in case you feel the need for an encore."

God he loved the way she had with words! Loved how a simple blazé phase had the ability to reassure him, better than anything else, that everything was going to be okay.

The first mouthful he took was torture: it trickled like sand down his throat, sat like lead in his stomach, tasted like Scotch – still. For a moment he thought it was coming back up, and Natasha reached for the bucket, placing it in front of him and rubbing her hand soothingly along the length of his spine. By some miracle, however, it stayed put, and after that each mouthful became perceptibly easier, until he rediscovered what thirst felt like.

Even with her support, his hands shook from the strain of holding the glass. He hated feeling so weak.

Natasha watched him with barely concealed anguish. It wasn't uncommon for either of them to come back from a mission battered and bruised, needing a few days off to recuperate. But they had never come back broken, not in the way Clint was now, and … it scared her. She was even half afraid to admit that fear to herself, in case admitting it realized it. What if Loki had gone too far? People were not meant to be unmade, that she knew from experience. And, there wasn't always a way back.

When Clint had consumed three-quarters of the glass, she gently pried it from his fingers, not wanting him to take too much too fast. He yielded it, complicity sinking into her embrace. At some point, her arm had snaked itself around his back and pulled him in close, her hand had anchored itself in the fabric of his shirt, as if she was the one who needed the comfort. She was meant to be taking things slowly: no sudden movements the S.H.E.I.L.D consultant had told her: no strong emotions. Well, she'd like to see him handle this situation with the advisable degree of professional detachment.

She could feel Clint's breath evening out as he submitted, once again, to exhaustion. It left a hot accusation on her neck. They did not, as a rule, keep secrets from each other, not even under oath. Their partnership worked exactly because they were brutally, unashamedly honest. And though she didn't want to admit it, didn't want admit that there might be a part of him broken that even she didn't have the power to fix, not talking about it was worse. Not talking about it felt like lying. And no problem ever went away by pretending it didn't exist.

"Clint?" She began hesitantly. And when had she ever been hesitant around him? "There's something else."

He made a sound that was half way between a groan and a response. She knew he was listening even if he kept his eyes closed, and maybe not having to look into those fathomless, blue orbs even made what she was about to say easier.

"Fury wanted to have you evaluated. Medical expressed some concerns about Selvig's … stability. And you were under at least as long as him."

And used at least as cruelly.

She watched him for a reaction, expecting anything other than what she saw: conflict.

"I told him in very refined terms where to go."

Clint chuckled weakly:

"Atta girl."

"There's a compromise though."

A second too late she realized the naivety of her word choice.

"Thought we'd had enough of those," Clint mumbled.

"This one's just between you and me."

Slowly, she moved her hand up to cup his chin, a gesture that was a whole new territory of familiarity for both of them, forcing him to look at her. This time she was not afraid of those eyes, eyes that were all him and none of Loki. This gaze was their contract.

"I don't believe in miracles, Clint. I don't expect you to come out of this and not be effected by it. But you need to realize, now, that you have to let me help you. You need to tell me when you're having difficulty distinguishing what's real, when the nightmare close in until you're overwhelmed, when everything becomes just too much to bare because, somewhere down the line, everything _will_ become too much. The first time they broke me was child's play compared to the second time I broke, trying to make myself whole. No-one really knew what I was going through after the Black Widow project, and they couldn't really help. The things that went on in that room … they defy imagination. But if there's even one good thing that came from that experience it's that I _can_ help you. No-one expects you to go through this alone, Clint, least of all me, and accepting help _doesn't_ make you weak. It's one of the strongest and hardest things you can ever do. This won't be easy, but it _gets_ easier. I promise. I know."

It was the first time he had heard her speak so extensively of her experiences after the Red Room, speak with a complete detachment from the event that he also, one day, hoped to achieve. It filled him with a sense of reverence and fear. He didn't want to think that things might get worse before they got better, but there was no escaping the possibility.

He smiled grimly and promised:

"I'll tell you when I'm losing control," knowing how she would frown at the tone of self-depreciation. But then, an unpleasant though struck him.

"What about -" he began.

" - They don't need to know." Her answer was almost defensive.

He settled back into her embrace, reassured. His 'instabilities' being broadcast to the rest of the misfit team he was now affiliated with was something he could definatly live without.

For the first time in three days he welcomed sleep, welcomed it in the warm safety of her arms. And that was the first and last time they kept the nightmares at bay.

Natasha lay awake long after Clint had drifted. Trying to make sense of everything that had happened. Trying to understand. Trying to resolve and put aside every selfish emotion in this interim where she herself was free and able to fall apart. But mostly she was nothing more or less than the patient, vigilant watcher in the night.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you very much for reading.<strong>


End file.
